The Alchemist’s Open Letter to Wellesley

Photo courtesy of Cantabrigia

No, first year, I’m not talking about the 9:40 p.m. bus you take from Wellesley — there isn’t a 9:40. There isn’t a 10:20 either. If you want to arrive fashionably on time to Kappa Sig, if you’re in a society, or Zeta Psi, if you’re a nerd, you take the 11. Trust me, I have seen many a frustrated Wendy walk aimlessly around the Stud, eat regrettable amounts of Anna’s, or cry because of an abandoned PSET, all after returning from an empty frat house. There’s no greater disappointment than realizing that MIT is filled with socially unique students that use caffeine as a social catalyst and alcohol as a social lubricant.

Take the later bus but think twice about sleeping over on a mice-scoured floor or finding yourself in some cis-boy’s bed. There’s nothing more awkward than the 9:40 a.m. Peter from Harvard or the 10 from my side of town, when all the churchgoers are starting their days and you’re wondering where special friend put your sweater. But, by all means, strut past me if you do take that bus from 77 Mass Avenue. Own the night. Or your hangover.

You see, Wellesley students have sat by me and confessed their life stories to their friends while I eavesdropped. Asian tourists have taken pictures of me without my permission, children have failed to climb me, frat boys have peed on me, and the rats of the sky have, well, taken their liberties. Being a number statue is especially hard when people only see you as numbers. Also, when people aim their projectile vomit at me. I get it. I’m a landmark. That doesn’t give you an excuse to throw up on me. Throw up on yourself. Throw up on the Peter. Oh wait, you probably did. Do it when sober. That’s when you learn not to read on any empty stomach in a moving vehicle.

Wellesley, your international students have smoked near me and first-years have retreated to me in shame after failing to navigate the 1 MBTA Bus. Most importantly, I have seen you irresponsibly finish an Anna’s burrito, thinking it would be your lunch tomorrow, before Peter, your terrible, figurative boyfriend, leaves the stop. I’ve also seen your real-life, temporary partners awkwardly count their dollar bills, only to look like deer in headlights when asked for tokens. So, yeah, I get you and I know you get me to. So, if Peter is your unreliable boyfriend, I am your father: surprisingly unsophisticated and constantly watching you. It was cute when you were a baby, but stop throwing up on me.